


i'll take care of you (because someone has to)

by ClementineKitten



Series: btcu (body talks cinematic universe) [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Kageyama Tobio is a Good Significant Other, Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Relationship Study, Sick Character, i love how that's a tag... anyway they're in love, some angst and some fluff yall know the deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:48:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineKitten/pseuds/ClementineKitten
Summary: Kageyama noticed it the moment he and Hinata woke up -- something's off with his boyfriend.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio
Series: btcu (body talks cinematic universe) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915288
Comments: 16
Kudos: 165
Collections: oh YES





	i'll take care of you (because someone has to)

**Author's Note:**

> (does a gay kickflip) this takes place somewhere bw body talks and if my heart was a house, probably like 2019

Something’s not quite right with Hinata.

Kageyama notices it immediately in how he arises hesitantly from his slumber, awoken as Kageyama starts getting out of bed; where his arms had been lie in warm bands across Kageyama’s stomach. He rubs at his eyes and yawns, expression blank. His movements as he shakes off the grogginess are unassured, and he slips off the mattress after Kageyama without a single word of greeting.

They both have practice today -- they have a tournament fast approaching, and things are ramping up -- so it's not as if they could talk until the world ended, but the lack of immediate enthusiasm is disconcerting, since he’s usually such a morning person. “Morning, Shou,” Kageyama greets, collecting his clothes.

“Mornin’, Tobi,” Hinata says, voice rough with sleep. He pulls off his t-shirt and tosses it onto the bed next to him as Kageyama heads out of their room and to the bathroom. There, he dresses quickly and preens his appearance in the mirror (as much as it requires, which isn’t a lot) before returning to Hinata, who in the middle of pulling up his shorts. He settles them on his hips, then looks up at Kageyama, smiling.

“We still have leftovers, right? Let’s have those for breakfast,” Hinata comments. “The soup was hella good.”

“Thanks.”

Hinata gives him a wry look, nudging him as they pad their way down to the kitchen. Once they’ve gotten into the grove, plates of last night’s food before them, it almost looks like he’s back to his old self, eating noisily as ever, going on and on about a tale from practice -- it seems there’s never a dull day in the lives of the MSBY Black Jackals, and as much as Kageyama respects them, he doesn’t know how he would fare on their team.

Then Hinata coughs.

“Augh,” he mutters, taking a swig of water. “Have you noticed how dry it is in here?”

“Not really,” Kageyama admits, eyeing him surreptitiously. Hinata sniffles.

“Well, the seasons are changing, after all, maybe I’m sensitive,” Hinata mutters flippantly, twirling his chopsticks as a magician would do their cane. “Did you remember to change the filter?”

“Of course I did.”

“Did you really?”

Kageyama holds his hand across the table for Hinata to see -- on his wrist, there’s a small abrasion, a casualty of the intense labour that goes into changing out their furnace filter. “Obviously.”

Hinata grins. “Well, well, aren’t you clever.”

They finish breakfast amicably and soon after, they leave together, although Hinata’s practice starts a bit later than Kageyama’s. No reason to be alone in the morning, he tells Kageyama with a signature bright smile. It’s not like the gyms they practice in are far away from each other, either way.

Neither of them drive, however, so they’re reliant on the subway, and something Kageyama didn’t think he would have to deal with in his older years was public transit getting a little difficult.

The average person, perhaps, won’t recognize any and all athletes in the world. However, in tandem with being locals, and having made a name for themselves, Kageyama and Hinata get their fair share of acknowledgement from passer-bys and the occasional starstruck kid.

(Kageyama _still_ doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to the latter. Hinata takes it in incredible stride; he's great with kids, and he’s got a personality that demands attention and prestige. It's fitting.)

Today, however, as they sit side by side, both in their masks, neither of them are recognized. Hinata kicks at the subway floor, looking intently at something on his phone while Kageyama watches the grey wall of the tube blur past, blocking out the loud chatter of the throngs of people around them. He knows Hinata’d lean on him if he had a little less moral character than he currently does (which isn’t saying too much), but he still sways a little back and forth, humming something under his breath. It's either a song or a grocery list. Or a grocery list in the form of a song.

(Kageyama does their grocery shopping for, well, several reasons.)

Between their thighs, hidden from the public at large, Hinata locks his pinky into Kageyama’s with his free hand.

More often than not, Kageyama finds himself attuned to Hinata’s condition. It’s the years of partnership, at this point, whether that be simply on the court or in life, and concern worms its way into his mind as he thinks of the events of the morning. He’s a bit of a -- scratch that, a _very_ weird person, in all his janky brilliance, but he’s got a routine, and somewhat of a default; or, as much of a default as someone who is ever-evolving can have. 

He has a default which seems vaguely disturbed.

He can’t let it worry him, though, not too much. He gets off at his stop, pressing through the crowd, and Hinata cheerily waves him off in a grandiose gesture. They’re adults. They can handle themselves, and Kageyama respects him enough to let him do his own thing.

Coming upon his gym, he can’t let himself be distracted.

He’s got volleyball to play, after all.

-

_Gruelling_ is not the proper word Kageyama would use to describe practices with the Schweiden Adlers.

_Gruelling_ would imply that there was a negative aspect to it, something he didn’t enjoy, something that was a slog to get through each and every day. Something unsavoury.

Each practice pulled everything he was out of him, ruthlessly and violently. _Practice how you’ll play in a game_ was always advice he held close to his heart, and naturally, something that his teammates subscribed to as well. His allies, not another team, were across the net as they practiced, but they were entirely merciless in how they used his tactics against him, twisted everything he thought he knew, held him up against a mirror of his own abilities and forced him to confront who he was as a player, and as a person.

In every single practice.

(Especially with a tournament coming up; they can’t waste time, not that any of them would ever attempt to.)

It’s not as if Kageyama simply thinks of the Alders as teammates or compatriots, however. Many of them were past rivals, many he never faced before, and all of them had the potential to be future adversaries, as well. Working alongside so many incredible, talented people, knowing that one day he may very well be working _against_ those same incredible, talented people, only served to oxidize the fire in him, make it burn harder, brighter. The knowledge makes the tips of those flames escape into his chest and throat until he breathed through that unyielding intensity, and it dictated more in his life than it already did.

He’s _so_ glad he made it here, more glad he could ever hope to put to words.

“Good job today, Kageyama,” chirps Hoshiumi, slapping him on the back as he skips past him and into the locker room.

“Thanks,” he replies coolly, patting his cheek with a sweat towel. “You, too.”

Ushijima nods at him as they fall into step. He’s come to realize this is a similar acknowledgement to Hoshiumi’s, with less of the fanfare. He returns the gesture.

Friendly chatter and some slight ribbing float through the air as they all strip themselves of their practice clothes and get into some more weather-appropriate outfits (Hinata was right; the seasons are changing, and there was noticeably wintery chill to the morning breeze). Hirugami pokes Hoshiumi in the side and teases him about his new haircut, to which he responds in the fashion he knows best-- flustered yelling.

Everyone talks, jokes, changes, and eventually takes their leave, leaving Kageyama nearly alone as he takes out a banana and starts on it.

While he chews thoughtfully on the bench, staring into smooth, well-kept walls, his phone buzzes. 

**miya-san:** is summin up with you and shou-kun?

The action is suspicious in and of itself; Miya very rarely texts him. In fact, last time he did was some months ago, looking at the time stamp. Usually when he needs to communicate, they do it in person or via Hinata.

**Kageyama Tobio:** No, what’s wrong with him?

**miya-san:** wellll, he was jus kinda high strung today

**miya-san:** doin his shouyou thing, but he seemed kinda keyed up, ya dig?

**miya-san:** … trouble in paradise? ;)

**Kageyama Tobio:** We haven’t been arguing or anything

**miya-san:** bummer

**Kageyama Tobio:** I mean, I did notice something was off while we were eating breakfast, so?

**miya-san:** how domestic of you two, disgusting

**miya-san:** just make sure you look after him. wouldn’t want anythin goin wrong with my dearest wing spiker

Kageyama huffs.

**Kageyama Tobio:** Of course, thanks Miya-san

**miya-san:** whatever

It was like fighting an uphill battle with every conversation. He doesn’t know what he initially did, all those years ago during their U-19 training camp, to earn his ire, but he knows he has only continued to pour salt in the wound ever since Hinata first returned from Brazil and they faced off against each other.

Kageyama doesn’t wish to harbour a grudge against anyone, least of all his senpai in their field and a formidable opponent, but Miya sure doesn’t make himself particularly easy to get along with.

At least his concern for Hinata was genuine.

Oh, well. Nothing he could do about his petulance, he reasons, somewhat amused, as he puts down his phone. Miya would likely be bitter until the end of time itself.

(In a way, he’s somewhat relieved that Hinata is the one out of their household to be on the team with him, in no way related to how they’d be at each other’s throat for the starting position.)

That aside, he senses anxiety creep into his mind against his better judgement. Hinata is a grown man who can take care of himself…

...However, he's also a grown man Kageyama is, well, in love with. Friends may become enemies, people whom you tossed to may show up on the other side of the net, but his dedication is one thing that will never change. Despite everything he feels for his boyfriend, trust, belief, and other things so strong naming them would do them a disservice, worry seeps through his skull and into his brain.

If something’s affecting how Hinata plays volleyball, it’s something big, indeed.

(Maybe Miya is just like him, however, paying him special mind; maybe it’s a setter thing.)

Plagued with this incessant, niggling fear, Kageyama sees off his remaining teammates and starts on his way home. He sends a message off to Hinata, as he’s oft to do when he’s on the subway (Hinata worries that he’ll get swallowed up and eaten by ravenous fans -- the shoe has yet to drop on that one), and crosses his arms over his bag.

He’s spacing out a little as the subway approaches his stop when he notices two boys, maybe high school age, sitting across from him, whispering back and forth and stabbing him with pointed looks. _It’s Saturday,_ thinks Kageyama, noticing their lack of uniforms. _Maybe their district is five days._

Then they, after some meandering, start coming over to him. Oh no. He’s on his own.

(He ought to be better at this sort of thing by now.)

“U-uhm, you’re Kageyama-san, right?” squeaks one of them.

Kageyama glances down at his windbreaker, half-expecting himself to be in his jersey. “Yes, that’s me.”

The two boys exchange shell-shocked looks before their gazes flit back to Kageyama. He prepares himself. An autograph? A photo? Words of encouragement? He’s still not the best at the latter. “Can we… can we get your autograph?” asks the other boy, a blond, who Kageyama now notices is clutching a notepad.

“Sure,” Kageyama responds evenly, gingerly taking the paper and pen from the boy. The pair share excited looks. 

(Years, now, since he graduated from Karasuno, and he can’t bring himself to use a different signature than the one Sugawara designed for him. Heart included.)

“U-uh! Thank you!” blurts the one who spoke to him initially as Kageyama gives the pad back. 

“We’re both big fans,” says the boy who handed him the notepad. “You’re a huge inspiration.” He speaks in a voice that wavers a touch with nerves, but the confident expression he wears seems as genuine as possible. It hardly cracks.

“I see.”

Inspiring the younger generations wasn’t something, in all honesty, that Kageyama had thought about before he went pro. He played volleyball, he did what he loved, and everything, even breathing and blinking, came after that as a result. It wasn’t that it was unconscious, or automatic, it’s just that it took priority. He’s a public figure now, a public figure with merchandise and interviews, a string of awards and acclaims and people who look up to him with bright eyes.

It’s kind of crazy, really.

He doesn’t think of himself as the most infectious, inspiring person, personality wise. When it came to their team, riling the masses was more something he let Hoshiumi do. The fact that what he did pulled in people, without him even noticing, just by doing that which he loved, boggles his mind.

Well, volleyball is great, and if he’s able to give some kid a pillar to look to, that’s alright with him.

Kageyama knows how hard it is without a pillar.

(Oh, how he knows.)

“Do your best, then,” Kageyama goes on, looking into the two boys, who straighten up. “If you two get really good, maybe we’ll play each other one day.”

They exchange bewildered glances. “Y-yes, sir!” exclaims the shier of the two. He’s got messy, sticky-uppy hair. Huh. 

Kageyama’s stop is coming up, so he bids the two a farewell and they both give him a low bow (which is a bit hard to do on public transit, and they stumble) before hops off. He’s usually with the team, or Hinata, or someone else in cohort when he gets recognized, so having it happen so suddenly is, well, jarring.

It doesn’t feel bad, however.

Speaking of Hinata, Miya’s texts come back to mind as he starts on the sidewalks back to his house. He debates internally between confronting Hinata directly, and letting him lie a little to see if he can sort out whatever’s bothering him, and only stepping in if something seems to be seriously wrong. It ends without much heat as he realizes the latter option is the more pragmatic of the two and continues on his path home, mind turning back to his practice. His decision notwithstanding, Hinata’ll be back in an hour, give or take, and he has some time to kill.

He looks up into the greyish sky, inside of which white clouds unfurl.

You move forward one step at a time, whether you’re creeping or sprinting. Any more and you risk tripping over yourself -- anymore foolishly and you lose sight of the ground . 

In being in a relationship, in living with and beside another person, he’s come to realize that, just like in volleyball, there are some things he can’t control, no matter how desperately he wants to. He’s grown up a little, since the time he wanted to be the overwhelming control tower, who needed everything to fall in line under him, because goddamn did he need one thing in his life going to his plan.

He learned to take a step back and let other people take the breath for once.

Thinking about it, maybe it isn’t exactly something as simple yet as complicated as easy trust, that he holds with Hinata. Maybe it’s unwavering belief, instead, that tethers them to their bond, their passion, and their love.

Belief that they could handle themselves and each other. Belief that they would find each other no matter what tried to hold them back from one another.

The thought brings him a little comfort.

-

So, he makes the conscious decision not to bring it up. He doesn’t mention that Miya contacted him, even when he receives a question mark filled message later in the evening which he doesn’t respond to, because he has nothing to say in a reply to that.

He’s always paid attention to Hinata. He has since they were kids and he’d likely continue doing so into the foreseeable future and beyond that, so it doesn’t put too much strain on him to watch him a little closer than he usually does, try and pick up on more signs while he cogitates over what could be wrong.

_Sometimes, Shou’s just weird._

It’s not like he’s _incorrect_ about that one.

(“Tobio, give me a word that means, uh… _confusing and confounding,_ ” Hinata had posed that night, tapping a pen on the crossword in their daily newspaper. He’s not good at crosswords, neither of them are, but somehow, he always ends up attempting them before completely abandoning them. “Three spaces.”

Kageyama had rested his hand on the kitchen countertop, pivoting around to look into the dining area. “You,” is what he said in response.

The look Hinata gave him was priceless.)

To Miya’s credit, he does seem a little more wound up than usual, and thinking about it makes Kageyama a little dizzy in the head. To think, he spent the better part of his adolescence (without his consent, might he add) agonizing over every little thing that Hinata said and did, and nowadays, as an adult, he hasn’t changed all too much. It would be almost funny, if it weren’t concerning.

He always considered his rapt attention one of his sticking points on the court. Despite his behaviour, Hinata doesn’t seem to operate like he’s recognized something’s off, and his charisma, if one could call it that, is still as sparkling as ever.

...Which is what makes Kageyama’s worry, mired in slight perplexity, ever the more apparent as he pulls himself out of bed alone the next morning.

Sunday -- a rest day, and usually when the two of them got the house in check if they’d fallen behind on daily chores. Kageyama wouldn’t say that the either of them really sleep in, but Hinata definitely has the tendency to be a little hard to wake from his slumber without the promise of practice; it makes it all the more difficult when he’s found himself wrapped around Kageyama, as he often did.

(As they tucked themselves into bed the night prior, even his arms around Kageyama’s body felt unnatural; it was as if he would disappear any second. Kageyama doesn't like feeling like the first person who said he was here and stayed is going to disappear.)

No such cuddling issues today, it seems. Kageyama pushes his bangs out of his face and yawns, laying a palm on the side of the bed where Hinata slept. The pressed white sheets are cold, so he draws himself onto the floor, pads to the dresser, and pulls on a t-shirt. 

Kageyama expects to find one of Hinata’s _gone leavin’_ notes posted on the table, but what he gets instead is the hiss of something grilling that he hears in the hallway, and the scene he happens upon when he steps foot into their kitchen. 

His boyfriend appears to be making breakfast, something he usually doesn’t do because he seems to prepare meals by loudly slamming cupboards, dropping utensils, and throwing bowls at the wall.

Nothing of the sort, though. Seems to be a theme lately.

Hinata’s in his boxers, too (he produces a lot of thermal energy during the night), but he’s wearing a sweatshirt that he doesn’t quite fill out; it’s Kageyama’s. Hinata has long since co-opted most of his clothes for himself, especially his various team merchandise, as is evidenced by his name and number across the back.

He looks cute in them, though, and Kageyama doesn’t have the heart to take them away.

He’s got headphones on, and his body shimmies about the counter as he hums to whatever music he’s listening to, probably some kitschy j-pop. His footwork as he dances ethereally across the kitchen floor is, somehow, just as mesmerizing as his footwork when he’s playing.

Kageyama leans against the entrance, looking through hazy morning, and just stays there and watches him.

The air kisses his skin as he moves through it, and it rustles the messy, uncombed locks of orange hair set beneath his headphones. His voice cheats out into that same air, filling it with his off-key melody, but Kageyama can’t bring himself to feel annoyed with his lack of singing skill.

Arm straight in the air, Hinata spins in a circle.

Then he spins in a half-circle.

His eyes fly wide open as he clatters his headphones to his shoulders and around his neck.

“Tobio! What are you doing? How long have you been there?” he demands, face flustered, looking very threatening with tongs clutched in his fist.

“I live here, I can stand where I want,” Kageyama says, taking himself off the wall and walking into the kitchen, toward the accusatory finger pointed at him.

“So you were just watching me?” retorts Hinata as he’s approached. He taps Kageyama on the nose as soft, soft music fills the space between them. “You creep,” he murmurs affectionately.

Kageyama makes a face at him. “How was your sleep?”

“It was sleep,” answers Hinata. “Anyway, I’m making something.” The salt in the pan snaps as he indicates the mackerel he’s in the middle of grilling. “Looks good, right? Great, even, I would say.”

“It looks fine.”

Hinata fixes him with a mutinous glare, and Kageyama grins as he returns to flipping over his fish. Kageyama walks up behind him, footsteps resounding quietly in the walls, places his arms around his shoulders, and feels his stomach shift unnaturally when Hinata tenses against him.

Oftentimes, Kageyama finds himself wondering if Hinata is more liquid than human, with how he fluidly rushes around the court and in how he melts into Kageyama’s touch. It was as if he never had a solid form in the first place. 

The sudden stiffness makes the unease churn.

“Hey, hey,” chirps Hinata in a strained sort of way, “don’t think you can go distracting me while I’m in the middle of making breakfast!”

“So you get to bother me and I don’t get to bother you?” Kageyama huffs. Hinata twists beneath his touch. “Why are you wearing a sweater? You’re warm.”

Heat permeates through the sensitive skin at the back of Hinata’s neck, down into the exposed shoulders that Kageyama holds, but despite that warmth, Kageyama feels ice begin to eke into his veins.

It comes not like a flood, nor like the sky opening to make way for a torrential downpour. Realization dawns in his mind much like… just that, _dawn,_ like the sun dawns across the shuddering horizon line, throwing new light over young, whispering grass.

Yeah, like that. A fading recognition that sneaks up his spine and crawls into his brain.

“Shouyou, are you sick?”

As if he was reflecting the sudden change to Kageyama’s blood, Hinata himself freezes in place.

“What do you mean? Sick? I’m not sick, I’m fine.” He protests quickly and with veracity, but the lilt in his voice has already sealed his fate.

Kageyama draws away from him, and although he flails under his grip, he manages to place a hand on his forehead. Heat seeps into his own palm. "You're hot."

"That's nice of you, but I'm okay." Hinata smiles up at him, but it’s a touch too dishonest to sit comfortably on his face. "It's like you said. It's the sweater. Maybe it's 'cuz its your sweater, I'm getting all flustered."

Neither flattery nor distraction will get him anywhere. Kageyama frowns. “Don’t be an idiot. You feel like you have a fever.”

Hinata takes his wrist and moves it slowly away from his face, façade draining away beneath them. “You don’t have anything to be worried about,” he says, tone heavy.

" _I’m_ not the one who’s worried,” Kageyama responds, the blatant lie slipping through his lips. “You should be.”

The sound of fish skin sizzling escapes into the vibrating air, and intermingles with the tension. Hinata shuts off the burner. “I’m not like I was in high school,” he continues, eyes focused unseeingly on the pan before he turns back to stare into Kageyama. “I can take care of myself.”

Before him stands the image of desperation, skin ruddied with exertion and fever, cheeks a deep red in his passion and his anger. Sweat makes his jersey cling to him like he’s the only thing it’s able to hold onto, and tears run almost as quick as he down his face.

At least, that’s what Kageyama thinks he sees.

In reality, it’s the adult Hinata before him, eyes narrowed in a show of challenge. He rests the balls of his palms on the curve of the stovetop.

“You, of all people, should know when to rest,” Kageyama goes on. “Don’t be irresponsible.”

“I would be if something was seriously wrong.” His pitch drops a mite, becoming uncomfortably low, as it sometimes does when he’s getting upset. It makes Kageyama’s hair follicles twitch. “Which nothing is. It’s a small thing, I barely noticed it, I can still play, and we have a tournament coming up anyway--”

“And what happens if you _can’t_ play in the tournament because this gets worse?” Kageyama points out. He takes another step toward Hinata, whose eyebrows angle downwards in defiance. “You said you wanted to stay on the court as long as you can--”

“--Which I will,” Hinata interrupts. “You’re overreacting, Tobio.”

Kageyama’s skin prickles. He and Hinata bicker, sure, they haven’t stopped doing that since the day they first met, but it was rare that the two of them actually got seriously into it with each other. Before Kageyama understood himself, he understood Hinata, and what confrontation, confusion, or conflict they had was ultimately overwritten by that which ran deeper than he ever fathomed it could.

Since their first year, since that fight they had, Kageyama thought he had walked back. He believed, somewhere, there _was_ that mutual understanding, that they were finally able to meet in the middle, meet where Hinata’s palm met his toss. After all, they had to move on, had to press forward.

_What happens when you’re put in a situation where you have to pause?_

“What’s worse, having to rest for a little so you can feel better,” Kageyama weighs, attempting to appeal to the sensibilities he _knows_ Hinata has, if only a little, “or not being able to play at all because you’re sick?”

Hinata’s jaw visibly tightens. “We don’t have practice today, so I’m fine.”

“But you were sick yesterday, weren’t you?” responds Kageyama. “That’s why you were off. Miya-san said so, too.”

That causes a flash behind his pupils. “Atsumu-san said… That’s not the point!” Hinata snaps.

“I thought you learned your lesson--”

“My lesson that I can’t stop?” Hinata retorts, taking his hands up off the edge of the stove and putting them into fists at his sides. “Tobio, you don’t understand.”

Kageyama finds himself retreating, a little, as Hinata approaches him. His expression, usually so jovial when they’re at home together, has a twist of anger that slides up and down the the creases of his distorted face, and makes him look intimidating. His fire he had when it came to volleyball flickers ominously.

“I understand enough to know when you’re being dumb and hurting yourself.”

Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say, because the flash Kageyama had seen when he mentioned Miya transforms into lightning that tears through him, setting his skin aglow as the fuse blows.

“No, Tobio, you _don’t!"_ he explodes, rattling the kitchen cupboards. “You don’t get what it’s like-- you _never_ get sick, you _never_ do anything wrong, I’ve done everything I can to stop myself from getting sick, and yet, I’m _still--”_

“And you think not taking care of yourself is the answer to that?” With _his_ fire behind his own eyes, Kageyama steels his footing. “Have you already forgotten our first year?”

“Of _course_ I haven’t forgotten, do you think I’m stupid?”

Hinata lifts his chin as he poses the inquiry, laced from feet to hairline in indignance.

“Not usually.”

With his eyes wide and his lips pursed, Hinata lunges toward him.

Or it seems like that’s what he _attempts_ to do, at least -- what he does instead is lurch, he sways on unsteady legs, he stumbles forward as tends toward Kageyama. The toes of his bare feet scrabble against tile as he almost trips over himself, and Kageyama rushes out to catch his arms as panic pulses in his muscles. Hinata shudders in place.

“See?” Kageyama reprimands, helping him struggle back to an upright position, tapering his intense splash of anxiety. 

“I can-- take care-- of myself,” bites Hinata, grabbing onto Kageyama’s shoulders. The fabric of his t-shirt bunches at his stubborn finger tips. “I don’t need your help.”

It stings, a bit (a lot), to hear the person who taught Kageyama that it was okay to accept help, that he didn’t have to be alone anymore, say what he has. He steadies Hinata.

Holding him up, like this, it’s a reminder to Kageyama of how small he is. Of course, he’s always been small to Kageyama, half a foot shorter than him and tens of pounds lighter than him, both when they were young, and even now when he’s come into his own. His hands fit perfectly in Kageyama’s own, his hips in Kageyama’s lap, his heart in Kageyama’s chest. He likes the way he is.

But his size never made him, as a person, seem small. He was always too big for his body, a star on the brink of imploding, bright and blazing with white-hot heat, drawing in the attention of anyone who had the pleasure or the misfortune (beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all) of coming into contact with the threatening supernova, making sure they never had the chance to look away from him.

Vitality overfloweth within him. He was so much.

He’s the sun. He always has been.

But having him, now, he almost fits his physical self. He’s withholding _something,_ stymying a part of him, clipping that which always spills over in droves and infects everyone around him.

The sickness bars his essence.

“I can’t slow down,” Hinata hisses, tone softer than before, but with his impatience still lending its flare to each syllable. “I-- I’m finally here, I can’t risk falling behind.”

Kageyama bites the inside of his cheek.

“Is the _Greatest Decoy_ really so lame that he thinks taking a sick day is going to set him back?”

Hinata looks up at him.

Rather than mirth, in his mercurial eyes, against the amber shines something indistinct Kageyama has trouble putting a name to. “You’re not going to beat anyone when you’re sick,” he says, tempering the edge to his voice, watching that indistinct emotion travel around his iris and settle in his gaze. “Especially not me.”

“I want to stay,” Hinata declares. “I want to stay on the court, and with you, and I want to play and win for as long as I can.” His nails dig further into Kageyama’s shirt. “But… _dammit._ ”

Tears form at the corners of his eyes. “I know you’re right -- _don’t make a habit of it_ \-- and Takeda-sensei was right all those years ago, obviously, but it’s not that easy, dummy.”

Kageyama _knows_ it’s not. 

The desire to play, that _hunger_ to win, it’s what spurs him on and has the power to completely destroy him, all at once. It’s all consuming, viscous, ruthless, it fuels each and every movement, every lung compression and every thump of his heart. Each connection in his brain is made for the sake of driving him toward this one, specific, swinging ideal, one that he feels like he’ll never attain and is always attaining, somehow.

He doesn’t think he could describe that feeling without tearing himself open and crawling inside his chest.

And he _knows_ Hinata shares it.

It’s what threw his gangly, inexperienced self into the starting lineup in their first year. It’s what pulled him to higher plateaux, was the wind beneath his wings that sent him off soaring through the breeze.

It’s what made Kageyama fall in love with him.

“I know,” says Kageyama. “But you need to take care of yourself.”

Self care. Personal maintenance. As athletes, their bodies were so much more than vessels they used to get through life, they were their well-polished weapons, their instruments.

They had to watch out for them.

They had to be _so_ careful.

Hinata _hmphs_ at him, and the attitude makes Kageyama certain he’s getting through. “And besides,” he trucks on, “don’t forget that I’m going to go on ahead, whether or not you’re sick.”

Behind the tears, Hinata glimmers. “Well, if it’s a challenge from you, I can’t refuse.”

He’s still a little wobbly when Kageyama starts leading him away from the kitchen, their breakfast abandoned in pursuit of something more important.

Oddly though, despite what he just said, despite what he _felt,_ something else rises up into his cracked open chest, something that’s light, easy like hot air, but imperceptibly powerful all the same, as voracious as his hunger. It mingles, wonderfully, with what was already there, and it takes some moments of schlepping side by side for Kageyama to reign in and realize what it’s trying to tell him.

_It’s protectiveness._

He’s overcome with something so unrelenting, something that ties wires around his limbs and pulls him taut. Something that started happening in high school, and has since come to him with an enviable, ever-growing ferocity as his relationship Hinata has progressed over the years.

As a child, he never thought he could feel for something more than what he felt for volleyball.

Presently, though, he is inundated with an unwavering desire to hold Hinata and promise him that it’ll be alright, that it has been alright, that it will always be alright. And to him, to Kageyama, this is impossibly frightening.

As he takes him to the couch, Hinata sniffles, rubbing tears out of his eyes.

Hinata was… an incredibly emotional person. Not that Kageyama doesn’t think he’s a deeply feeling person himself, but his boyfriend was so much more _open_ , especially with things other than volleyball _._ Everything he did, everything he felt, he wore it on his sleeve, without hesitation or fear.

That included the tears. Kageyama never expected that it would cut so far into him.

Five times, Kageyama can remember, five times he cried so openly and with so much abandon. Past infancy and stubbed toes and skinned knees, of course.

First was when the morning took Kazuyo. Tobio and Miwa had been sitting next to him as the doctor, the harbinger, waited outside politely. The sunlight was too bright, inappropriately so, through dismal glass and hanging, dour clouds. Tobio had been holding his hand. Miwa had been holding Tobio’s.

(Kageyama had sobbed so much he was drained -- he did not cry before, during, or after the funeral processions. He did not cry at the burial. He had already given so much, and there was nothing left for the world to take from him.)

Second was the meal after their loss against Seijoh. The day the illusion was shattered. He was desolate, lost, apologetic; so was Hinata. He was _stuck_ in that remorse, and that was the worst part. Stuck in his misery, stuck on his hands and knees looking up at a _real king,_ stuck inside the vortex of his own mind.

(He wasn’t ashamed to cry in front of others -- he’s not so immature, and to shy away from his passion is to relinquish all he held dear.)

Third was after he lost his first Nationals with Karasuno. There was no catharsis, no raging declarations this time; he was simply spent.

(Alone, he was, while he cried. Just like Hinata.)

Fourth was, again, after he lost. But he was older then, wiser, when the Jackals stole their well-deserved victory out from under the Adlers. Bokuto’s spike had resounded in every molecule in the gymnasium, and Hinata had floated downward from his position as decoy, the eye of the hurricane, the calm amongst the torrents.

(Perhaps others didn’t notice; he hardly noticed himself. Sweat and tears, it was all salty liquid at the end of the day, and it was rubbed off with a towel all the same.)

Fifth was the morning after.

(Hinata was still asleep, the pair a mess of entangled limbs, his face calm and contemplative in his slumber. He barely knew there were tears there until he brought up his fist to rub the sleep from his eyes.)

Kageyama settles Hinata down into the couch, and he crumples, a little, into the corner. Without him fighting back, he’s able to run his hands over the exposed skin, all of which is warm beneath his deft touch. It’s not like he’s burning up, nor does it seem like the fever is messing with his judgement skills too badly, but still, it’s concerning.

“I’ll finish breakfast,” decides Kageyama, crossing his ankles where he sits, on the opposite end of the couch. “You should eat something and then go back to bed.”

Hinata pouts. “I know how to take care of a _cold,_ Tobio.”

Kageyama bristles. “I don’t want you passing out on me.”

“I’m not gonna pass out, jeez, have you always been this overdramatic?” Hinata smirks at him, but there’s a tinge of exasperation to the way his lips curl.

The answer to that is, surprisingly, not sarcastic. It comes easily to Kageyama’s tongue, and it’s out of his mouth before he can parse it in his brain.

“Shouyou, no, you’re-- you’re important to me.”

Kageyama didn’t have many preconceptions about what a relationship with Hinata would be like. In fact, he had no preconceptions about what a relationship would be like at all. It was never at the forefront of his mind, after all. There was always something more important, and that was volleyball.

But as he grew up, learned and watched, he realized that love, to him, wasn’t as advertised -- soft, warm, and homely. In many ways, utterly wholesome.

Love to him was fierce, impassioned, brimming with unforeseen intensity. There’s not much saccharine dreaminess to it. Kageyama has never once been willing to pursue anything in life without approaching it in earnest. Everything he chased, he did so with unmatched diligence, persistence, and focus. Hinata was no different.

But occasionally -- in nighttime dips and in slow, lingering love-making, in rainy Sunday mornings and in sleepy, quiet stretches of watching game footage or commentary together, it ebbs, it fades, not in its honesty but in its sheer magnitude, into something gentler, kinder. The edges blur, and instead of a raging wildfire in his chest, it becomes the warmth that keeps Kageyama alive, instead. No longer an incensed drive within him, things slow.

Love came in many different forms, that was something Hinata taught him. And now, with the yearning within his heart to sling an arm over him, tell him it’s okay, he knows that more than ever.

He thought he had gotten pretty good at loving Hinata.

Because Kageyama Tobio refuses to let himself be outdone.

Hinata regards him.

“More important than volleyball?” His eyes shine with something other than the beginnings of tears; it’s a spark of challenge, and it’s nostalgic. “Kidding.”

Kageyama looks at the wall.

Other than the photos and newspaper clippings, there’s something else, something unseeable to the naked eye. There’s memories, there, memories of when one of them leaned against the wall to adjust their socks, or when either of them got in a quick stretch before going for a run, or all the times Kageyama has held Hinata there and kissed him silly, while he giggled into Kageyama’s mouth, soft and present.

(This last one happens a lot.)

And that’s just their wall. All around their house exists phantoms of the past that cling to each and every streak of paint and every line in their hardwood floors, phantoms that haunt what was once a simple building and make it into their home.

“Yeah.”

Hinata blinks. “What?”

Old enough to walk, Kageyama started playing volleyball because his sister played it, and he admired her. And because his grandfather coached it, he always humoured his little Tobio, taught him, made him his favourite meals after practices.

Old enough to run, Kageyama kept playing because a game’s well-deserved victory sent a thrill through him that few things since have managed to top. He was good at it, really good, and he loved it, as purely as a child can love, with their cotton candy hearts and sweet shop smiles, untouched by the world’s horrors.

Old enough for a team, Tobio kept playing when Miwa did not, and he wondered if love -- if that was what he had -- could fizzle out like that. That unstoppable force of emotion, strong enough that it became his very core, must be referred to as such, no? _Love._ Said she didn’t want to cut her hair, said her boyfriend thought that was a dumb reason. Was there not enough room in her heart for two?

(There wasn’t, apparently, perhaps that’s why Tobio and Miwa fell apart.)

But his grandfather still watched him, still played with him, still made him his favourite meals when his aging joints and failing lungs allowed.

Old enough to realize no one was keeping up, Kageyama lost his pillar.

But he still had his love.

What no one told him, however, was how love could hurt -- how it twisted and corrupted, morphing into but a shadow of what it once was. No one told him how he could end up pursuing his contorted passion with so much of that childhood pureness in his heart.

Old enough to ignore just how much the loneliness stung, Kageyama met someone who promised “ _I’m here._ ” Someone who took that love, untwisted and unfurled it with his own two hands, and handed it back with that same smile, one he managed to hang onto since his own youth, one he still wears every day.

How would the person who gave him back his love fail to rank above it?

That doesn’t seem quite right.

“You’re joking, right, Tobio?” Hinata asks, disbelief lacing his words. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Why would I joke about that?”

Was it over the years of action and reaction, of camaraderie and arguments, of understanding another more than you can yourself, that Hinata Shouyou became intrinsically important to what he thought of as volleyball? Or was it simply that first impact, all the way back in their first year, of his hand against the ball during their first attempt at the quick, that drew Hinata into his soul?

Was it gradual? Was it because Hinata was so impossibly fun to toss to, because he held his hand as they walked it back?

Was it because the world could end, and so long as he stood with Hinata, he wouldn’t even notice the earth split in two?

When exactly did Hinata become his icon of volleyball?

“Nooo, Tobio.” That same icon rests his cheek against the couch. “You’re lying.”

Words fail; rarely have they come easily to Kageyama. 

Tobio perhaps was like Miwa -- siblings tend to be like that -- in that his heart didn't have the room for two. However, instead of one precluding the other, they mixed into his own personal blur of passion that set his chest astir. What he felt on the court was so similar to how Hinata lit him ablaze that those sensations have melded, become indistinct in his mind and body.

It wasn’t as if his life revolved merely around Hinata. Far from it. But even so…

"I can care about two things," he responds evenly. "But it's a close second."

"Am I dreaming? Is this a fever dream?" Hinata smacks his forehead. He’s smiling, now. It’s a better look on him. "Am I asleep? Is _the_ Kageyama Tobio telling me that I'm more important than volleyball?"

"Alright, don't push your luck," Kageyama mumbles.

He has no idea what words, phrases, or metaphors to use to accurately get across that the answer is yes, for him a thousand times over, to the moon and back, in this life and into the next. His first love was volleyball, sweet and innocent, his muse forever more, and his second sat now beside him.

How he got here, he wondered often. To the point where Hinata -- his partner, his adversary, his soulmate -- was considered more important than the sport which he devoted his entire soul to.

Was there inevitability in there? Fate? Destiny? Or did they simply end up here, a result of their determined charge forward, never looking back once?

(Kageyama thinks it's the latter, but for that very same reason, he doesn't spend much time cogitating over it. The important part is that he's here.)

Either way, it’s utterly crazy, utterly unprecedented -- utterly so _them_ that Kageyama can hardly stand it.

“Aw, you’re such a big sap, Tobi.” Hinata grins lazily at him. “You’re never gonna live that down, you know. You -- _you!_ \-- said that I’m better than volleyball!” There’s a dreamy look about him; one can assume it has little to do with the illness. “I’m gonna tell the tabloids.”

God, what brought him to this?

“No one reads those,” Kageyama dissents.

“You’d be surprised!” The neck of Hinata’s -- Kageyama’s -- sweater falls off his collarbones as he shifts. His hair is a little more frazzled than it ought to be, curling unnaturally with the fever, face a delicate shade of pale red. Despite his better efforts, torpor narrows his usually bright eyes, and he droops like a puppet with plucked strings over the back of the couch.

"You should get some sleep," Kageyama tells him. _Looking at him now, maybe food can wait._ He lifts his hand to Hinata's jawline, letting his fingers settle where his earlobe meets it. The skin there is warm.

"You're so cold. Can you stay like that?" Hinata leans into his touch and Kageyama ends up essentially cradling his head as his boyfriend's eyelids flutter shut. "Mm…"

If anything worries Kageyama more than Hinata working himself to and through illness, it's the lethargy that comes with it. It's so out of character, that although he knows it comes with the territory, it makes his stomach flip.

“You take care of me too well,” murmurs Hinata whimsically, and his breath pulls at every nerve ending on Kageyama’s palms, hitches at every line in his skin. “It’s not fair. It’s so dumb. You should be bad at something.” He sighs, the drawl trailing away into a pause. “...You’re not.”

“I’m not what?”

Hinata’s face scrunches up a little. “More important than volleyball.” He looks up at Kageyama drowsily through his eyelashes. “‘Cuz I can’t imagine volleyball without you, so it doesn’t really matter, does it, right?” He sways, just a touch. “I love you.”

Kageyama’s chest crumbles and rebuilds itself, redoes and overhauls. Funny, that, how they’re always on the same wavelength.

(Six times, Kageyama can remember, six times he cried. He brings his wrist over his eyes, and shakes out his fingers.)

"You’re loopy from the fever. Do you need someone to carry you to bed?" He says this with a sardonic touch to his words, tipping his head, but there's a genuine offer hidden in there somewhere.

"Maybe. But then you'll be exposed." Hinata wiggles his fingers in a fanciful way. “And I don’t wanna get you sick.”

He simpers at Kageyama. He’s a picture, there, a frame frozen in time. Even though he’s sick. Even though his appearance is rough. Even though he’s exhausted. The image of a man whom Kageyama has given his everything to, as half-asleep and sickened as he may be, stalls in his anxious mind. He’s still Hinata, still someone who would play volleyball until his hands and feet were reduced to bloody stumps, still someone who doesn’t know how to do anything but persist, in all his stubbornness and glory. He could probably work himself to death and bring himself back with his own tenacity.

Kageyama moves his hand a little, bringing his thumb up just below Hinata’s eye, where his cheek rises into the bone that his fluster currently sits upon. With a touch as careful as the one he wields on the court, he smooths over the ruddied skin in a gentle fashion a younger him (but still a him old enough, perhaps, to notice the world wasn’t against him anymore) could never have dreamed of doing. Lashes brush the thumb that curves at the side of Hinata’s face.

He grins up at someone old enough to love and be loved.

“Yeah,” Kageyama murmurs. “That wouldn’t be good.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- for him, a thousand times over (and everyone who read kite runner in english class starts weeping)  
> YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A KAGEHINA FIC, BUT IT WAS I, KAGEYAMA CHARACTER ANALYSIS. I HAVE FOOLED YOU YET AGAIN  
> hello darlings here is a story that has no real point or plot like at all but that i wrote to make me believe in love again. i wrote it bc i wanted to do some hurt/comfort and well, everyone likes a sick fic, but being sick makes me so impossibly anxious so yall mind if i project?  
> the first quadmester of my last year of high school is officially over! writer's craft is done and so i no longer have to write "original fiction" (what's that) and can instead devote myself to whatever the hell this is.  
> i don't really have any ideas for this cinematic universe that aren't, like, blatant smut (which i am not strong enough to write... i apologize. but hoo boy i got Concepts) but my boys will never be forgotten. i'm working on something else right now that isn't kghn focused (but they're a part of it, because i'm predictable) but deals with my five babies in their third year. stay tuned. it's a shakespearean tragedy on par with macbeth, which is the best one you're forced to read in high school, don't @ me. i also have another kghn work in the fics, unrelated to this, it's an au  
> (fun fact: the crossword joke works both in japanese and in english! kageyama is calling him "anata" [dear, meant to be slightly sarcastic], which is three katakana [as from what i could find, japanese crosswords are often written in katakana], just as 'you' is three letters! science is amazing)  
> (another fun fact: s/o to my dear, dear overwhelmingly_awesome. her and i have like, two kagehina aus which we funnel all our serious unrequited atsuhina angst into, so all that's left here is to dunk on him relentlessly. i love atsumu. i really do. but it's dunkin time, son)


End file.
